


Scream of Consciousness

by Giligan_Grapes



Category: Grand Theft Auto V, trikey - Fandom
Genre: Michael - Freeform, Rockstar Games, Trevor - Freeform, gta v - Freeform, hatelove
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-13
Updated: 2015-10-13
Packaged: 2018-04-26 07:18:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4995277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Giligan_Grapes/pseuds/Giligan_Grapes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Trevor writes amusing letters. Lo and behold.<br/>Also, a shout out to "Your Big Damn Happy Ending".</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scream of Consciousness

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FortinbrasFTW](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FortinbrasFTW/gifts).



This letter was found in Trevor’s trailer. No further explanation is necessary.

 

Dear you-know-fucking-well,

Why can’t someone invent letters that kick the addressee’s ass upon arrival? Just imagine their face as they think they are on top of the world and in the next second they are put to a place they belong: the ground. Which reminds me of some issues I have concerning said ground. I have multiple FUCKING issues concerning this. First being tossed to the ground by those clowns who thought I was not fit to fly, but that’s just a minor nuisance as opposed to the slimy deeds of this fat piece of shit who made me realise that hey, friendship is just another thing one has to flush down the toilet after turning your back to it, revolted. But guess what, it clogged the system and shit keeps coming back. And who else is more fitting to clean it up than me? I am king of shit. If ever there was a throne made out of shit, I would sit on it and made people worship their shit-god. I still could not be more of a shit than You. It is not a competition, no, it is a sheer fact. I am also king of facts. I deal with facts. You annoy me, I shoot you. You die, I disgrace your corpse. There is nothing I can’t solve. Except, of course, those problems that keep coming back; as here I am, haunted by a devil who does not seem satisfied with what I have given to him. No wonder You are so mushy, You feast upon others to make yourself go for another day. Abso-fucking-lutely no cares about double-crossing and compromising every single tacit understanding we had between us. Let’s not make this a Figth Club-type of bullshit, this is real men’s deal. Or at least, a real man and a half’s deal.

You can drink all you like and entertain hookers until your selfish little prick is falling down, you cannot unforge the bond. I don’t know what is in the air of North Yankton, but trust me when I say that I am as much your family as your sorrytits wife and miserable kids. What happens in Ludendorff does not stay there. Getting it now? I hope your sun-boiled brain can handle the challenge.

This is the story that’s been told a thousand times. What I would like to add, however, is that I have never felt more alive. Resurrection is all good and done, brothers, and who the fuck cares about Judas anyway? Guy sold his soul for damn silver, but You would not stoop so low. No, You are aiming for the gold medal. You betcha’. Yeah, You better be aiming high when You think of me and how it should go down, ‘cause I ain’t on the ground.

 

Maybe it’s that age is getting to me, maybe it’s that I should not read Floyd’s self-help books, but I felt the urge to write this down. But I give zero fucks.

(Oh yeah, about the stains on the paper:

…

 _You don’t want to know anything about them._ )

My best-est regards you piece of turd,

Trevor


End file.
